CHAPTER ELEVEN - UNTETHERED

A dog ran into the compound and stopped dead as if entranced. It worked slowly towards the tall, domineering woman with the wild hairdo, eyes capable of throwing the world into chaos, and the thin, frail man with stars in his eyes. The man watched the woman as if she were the sun and he was lucky to bask in her presence. The dog caught his attention for a few seconds, but as always, he had eyes only for the woman spinning the clay pot. Her wrapper pulled in between her legs, feet planted firmly on the dry red mud ground, her elbow deep in clay; he could not think of a better sight. 

It was a windy day, one of those days when the earth smelled strongly electric and damp. The man felt a chill run down his body, but he knew it had nothing to do with the cold. His body could always tell when her attention was his. 

“When will you stop staring at me like that?” 

She asked without lifting her head from her pot. The calm afternoon wind wiping at her solidified her ethereal look, he thought, smiling. 

“I met you on an afternoon like this, remember?” 

The man answered. A group of maids walked past them, chorusing their greeting on temporarily bent knees, but not stopping for the couple's response. They chattered on, the black marks on their temple a signifier of which family their servitude belonged to. The woman raised her head to the young, giggling maids, forcing the man to also turn his attention to them. She did things like that all the time, as if it was her mission to get him to notice the world he lived in more, he thought, watching the girls with their jiggling leg beads and their simple waist beads. They were the lucky women, chosen for their beauty to serve the royal family. The most fortunate of them would end up third, fourth, or even fifth wives to the men of the royal family. The man turned away disinterested; he was married, he was aware, but he did not know where all the women he was married to had come from. They were forced on him by his mother in the hope that love would save him; love had saved him. An incredible complex love for this strange woman in front of him. 

“You should live in this world more.” 

She chided, as usual, her rich voice pouring through him, causing every iota of his being to stand up alert. He smiled at her, watching as the lightning flashing overhead accentuated her. In his mind, everything existed to accentuate her perfection. 

“You said something similar on the day we met.” 

She shook her head at him; in the distance, thunder rumbled. 

“It was not on a day like this; it was windy like today, that is why you are confused, but it was during the dry and dusty season.” 

The woman corrected, her plump hand directing the spin of the molding clay. They sat silently because solitude appealed to him, and she always seemed to understand. Their silence only lasted for a second before a voice, yelling without pause, interrupted their quiet. 

“Come here, come here!” 

His father’s most recent wife was yelling. The couple saw two fat, tiny feet before they even saw the woman with the voice. A little girl dashed into their open hut and headed straight for the woman with the clay. Her tiny feet wobbled as she ran. The domineering-looking woman did not move a muscle, her hand remained on her pottery, and so did her eyes. The young mother reached them, eyes suspicious as to her daughter's whereabouts. Even if the prince was not in the hut, his concubine was an imposing enough character for anyone. The mother slowed to a stop in deference to them. 

“My greetings, my prince.” 

The mother saluted, kneeling, eye lowered to convey respect. The prince ignored her. She was beneath his station in life; he had no reason to respond to the former maid who had caught the chief’s eyes. But he had not ignored her because of her position in their society, but because two tiny, huge black eyes were imploring him to take her little side. He did not trust himself not to laugh if he opened his mouth. The mother, having no success with the prince, slowly turned to the domineering-looking woman. The prince smiled to himself; he knew how much effort and bravery it was taking the young mother to look at his lover. They avoided her as if their minds had concluded it was safer than acknowledging her. 

“She always comes to you. Please, she needs a bath.” 

The young woman pleaded. Another set of maids passed by, giggling at the scene. It had become a daily routine by this point. The children of the family bolted at the slightest opportunity into the woman's arms. She was not warm towards them, no more than towards other people, but like the prince, they all seemed to sense that she was safe, and for them, the man thought, his eyes twinkling in response to the little eyes laughing at her escape. He would stay out of it as usual. 

“Come for her when the rain passes. She would be asleep by then. Tell the other wives you pass on your way.” 

The woman replied. The first raindrop hit the cheek of the young mother, and the sigh of defeat that passed through her body pulled at the prince's heart. He knew it must be painful to the mothers that their children always seemed to love this strange woman more than they did them. The young mother nodded, bowed to the prince, and walked away defeated, her beautifully painted leg heavy on the earth as she walked. 

“Oh, and Chike, tell my maids that the children would like to snack on corn and roasted pears, tell them to bring the fresh corn and pears here, the children would like to roast them themselves.” 

Not for the first time, the prince noted that his lover was a woman used to being listened to. She always spoke even to his father and the Debia as if she was incapable of foreseeing disobedience. 

“Yes.” 

The mother replied resignedly.  

The man turned his attention to all the animals that had just wandered into his father’s palace. To be more accurate and specific, into his little corner of the compound. It had become a pattern these last couple of weeks. They followed this woman around, as if waiting for her to perform some miracle, just like the children, but they were more persistent. It worried the village. But no one batted an eye about the animals, not when the Chief’s son was in love, not when the Chief was no longer waiting in dread for the eventual death of his firstborn son, his favorite child. They tolerated the children shadowing her, mainly because they would not cross a woman, even the Debia favored. 

“How do I still find you an enigma after all this time?” 

The prince asked her. 

“Do you?” 

She said this in mock shock, rolling her eyes at him. He was a daydreamer; she once told him that his dreams were, in themselves, magic of a sort. He knew she had only been joking, but he liked that idea. The idea that he was in the slightest magical because she was. Everything about her was magical, so he would at least measure up to her a little if he were to be magic. He knew how lucky he was to have met her, to love her, and to be loved by her, because she was something special. 

“We are visiting my father’s hut this evening.” 

He reminded her. She looked at him and shrugged, her hand never leaving her spinning pot, clay splattered everywhere, his wrapper and bare body getting hit, was only a small prize for the chance to sit here like this with his lover.  

“I love you.” 

He whispered audibly to her. Her hand on the pot stilled as she raised her head; her eyes were full of life. 

“What is there not to love?” 

She replied, her grin spreading across her face; he had never met a more captivating woman. He ran his hand over the smooth royal mat. The tiny human, now playing with chalk and scribbling patterns on it, would soon be joined by other little humans. He smiled to himself; before her, his afternoon had been filled with solitude, now he was seldom by himself. He was happy. It was true, he was truly happy, he thought, catching the look on her face as another little foot ran towards them, pursued by both maid and mother. 

No one had believed he would survive long enough to inherit the village, but look at him now, he smiled, an accomplice for tiny runaway children. He was truly happy, he thought, watching his only drive for existence furrow her eyebrow and forehead in concentration, ignoring the unfolding scene before her. 

~ 

On the day he met her, the first thing he remembered was coming awake under his favorite Udara tree at the grove.  

Ogolo, with his eyes still closed, had tried to retrace his footsteps from earlier that day. He lay there on the cold earth, trying to reconstruct the day. He could feel the cold soil romance all over his bare back, but he was too exhausted even to attempt sitting up. Something had woken him up, but he could not think what.  

He remembered telling his mother and her battalion of medicine women that he was going for a walk because he needed a break. She wanted to know what it was that he needed a break from. He had just looked at her and all the concerned, wrinkling, and wrinkled faces watching him. He had looked at the tall pot of concoction and potion cooking in the large black cauldron. The smoke from the pot curled and danced, spreading its potent, sickening, sweet smell all over this large room that now doubled as his recovery room and the place where the Debia and the medicine women congregated. He remembered feeling incredulous that his mother would ask what he needed a break from. 

“From myself.” 

He remembered answering, as he walked away in the wake of pleas from the old woman. Death was near him, she wailed, her beautiful glittering wrapper a contrast to that of the working medicine women. She lamented, begging him to reconsider his rash action. 'This was not like him; he was not himself,' his mother begged after him. 

“The room is stuffy.” 

He muttered, and the room was stuffy. How many of the women could he count, sent for from nearby villages? 

“I need a break.” 

He had repeated as he disappeared through the woven door.  

The day had been moody, he remembered, because he thought it was poetic, even novel, that the day reflected his thoughts and life. The blistering, dry cold breeze stung rather than blew. The breeze swiped at his exposed skin, as if on a mission of vengeance, sending tingles down his body. The earth was dustier than usual as he walked; the dust appeared, too, to have something it was vengeful about. It had tried to infiltrate his nostrils and obstruct his breathing. Yet anything, he felt, was better than that room he had come to resent.  

The grove was a walk. A walk through back roads that only desperate people cut through. He loved those back roads; he did not have to be the pitiful heir when he walked down them. He was just feet and body walking through dirt roads on a path that was barely there.  

He had arrived at the grove; he remembered making straight for his favorite spot. The last thing he recalled was feeling like his chest had stones that would not let air through. The air was unbreathable, but it was the season for unbreathable air and too-dry nostrils; the trouble was that he was not well. He remembered thinking this and immediately chiding himself. He had lost consciousness, refusing to admit to himself that he was finding it difficult to breathe, hyperventilation be damned; he would die with dignity. 

Ogolo breathed experimentally now, through his nose. He was alive; he had not died, that much was self-evident. He fluttered his lashes experimentally as if testing that they could keep open. The sun had come out, he marvelled. Sun rays peeped through leaves, flirting shamelessly with his eyes in colors that reminded him again that he had not died.  

“How long are you going to just lie there like that?” 

An amused voice asked, startling him. He had thought that he was alone. He was always alone here; that was the charm of this place. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I have enjoyed watching you sleep, but the earth has to be uncomfortable at this point, or is it not?” 

Ogolo wondered why he was not irritated at being interrupted like this, but as he thought it, his mind assured him that the goosebumps on his skin were not from the cold alone; this interrupter was making him feel alert in ways he had forgotten were possible. 

“You walk two worlds too often for your good.” 

The voice continued; it had such amusement coloring it that Ogolo found his curiosity getting the better of him. He turned his attention to the direction of the voice and felt the goosebumps increase when his eyes found her. She was beautiful, he thought. No! Beautiful was not right; it was the laugh in her dark eyes, the amused curl of her lips as if she thought the world was there for her entertainment. More than anything, it was the way she caught at the sun. She was tall, very tall, with a hip that told you that this here was a woman used to being noticed. She looked as if she was anywhere between twenty and thirty-five; it was impossible to tell. She did not smile, but he did; he woke up, smiling.  

“How long will you lie there? Ants will make their home in your eye sockets at this rate.” 

Morbid, he thought, smiling even broader. 

“Not a big talker, I see.” 

She said, sitting beside him, her large waist had swayed, the beads around it jiggling, even walking that small distance, something he had tried and failed to keep from noticing. He sat up weakly, trying not to groan in front of this woman. He hefted himself upright and leaned into one of the odara trees. 

“Your body is lying to you; you only feel weak because your body only ever remembers that way of feeling.” 

She watched him like a petulant child, but he could not help thinking she was the most beautiful, sternly amused woman he had ever seen.  He sat up straighter. She was right; his bones felt alive. Could bones feel alive? he wondered. He thought the rustling of the leaves surrounding them seemed to think so. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

She asked him. But did not wait for his response. 

“I can tell the thought of humans usually, but you, I can’t make out.” 

She fascinated him; she spoke to him like she had no patience for anything. He ran his tongue over his dry, weather-worn lips and cleared his throat, testing his voice. 

“Who are you?” 

He asked. 

“What village have you come from?” 

She shrugged. She did radiate the sun, he decided. She looked like the sun existed to accentuate her. He watched her even when the angry breeze knocked down odara after odara, their shapely, yellow delicious body falling around them. He watched her even as two birds fought over one bruised odara. He thought not for the first time that this woman was fascinating. Something about her felt wrong, even dangerous, and yet he knew it was too late for him; he wanted to know this woman truly. 

“Another world.” 

She replied after a pause, and he found himself chuckling. She had a matter-of-fact way of talking that demanded that you take her seriously, yet there was a childish vulnerability about her that demanded that you trust her. 

“You speak my dialect; you cannot have come very far.” 

She shook her head, her beautiful, majestic beads jiggling in the process. Her beads, intricate tiny beauties like those of the women of his family, told tales about her class of birth. She held herself as if she were used to being important. He wondered what her story was. 

“What does it matter where I come from? I am here.” 

She answered him. He looked at her expensive wrappers. 

“You should not be alone in a strange place like this.” 

He informed her. She laughed for the first time, and he knew he was in trouble when his heart leaped in his chest in response. Her laughter was full of life. 

“You are here. You should be worried, too; you look like the son of someone important. Being the chief’s son and all.” 

“You guessed correctly. I am the chief’s son, so no chance anyone would be ambushing me.” 

He joked. He was feeling more alive than he had ever felt in his life, and it was not just the strength returning to his body; it was how she made him want to lean towards her. 

“What is your name?” 

He asked her. 

“I mean, you will not tell me where you are from, so I am going to assume that you are a princess who was run out of your village for attempting to overthrow your Queen.” 

That does sound very much like me.” 

She said, laughing. 

“Ogolo, the son of the great hunter, chief amongst men.” 

He was not surprised that she knew him; his ancestors had founded this village, as well as most of the neighboring ones. However, he had never been more ashamed of having no notable accomplishments, except for being born to his father. 

“I am not my father.” 

He found himself saying. He did not hate his father; no, the opposite was true. His father was a man anyone would be proud of. But what man wanted to be just the son of his father, in front of a woman like her? She was watching him closely, he noted. He noticed everything about her. The truth was that he wanted more than anything to be seen, truly seen by her, unlike anyone ever had. It was suddenly important to him to be accomplished. 

“You are not your father.” 

She conceded. 

“I will not have come for him. You, Ogolo, drew me here.” 

He smiled at her. He had no idea what she was talking about, but he smiled at her. It was how she said his name, he decided, as if she thought that he was interesting. He wanted to live out the rest of his life being interesting to the woman he had just met. 

“I can’t imagine what that means, but I am happy you came.” 

She nodded at him as if to say that she understood that he did not understand her meaning. He was teasing, and she was playing along. He felt elated; here was a kindred spirit. 

“So why are you here then? I mean, what can I do for you?” 

She shook her head. 

“I don’t know. I have been near you a lot; you are something. Something that has my curiosity.” 

He frowned in mock annoyance at her.  

“I will say I am honored to be of service, but something tells me I should be wary of what I am feeling honored about.” 

She laughed. Her laughter was music; he wanted to hear it for the rest of his life. 

“Fine, I appreciate how that might have sounded. Doesn’t make it any less true, though.” 

She informed him. The squirrels were gathering around them now, and so were the birds, but he did not notice anything that was not her. 

“You are doubling down. Really?” 

He asked, and she started laughing again. She nodded her head vigorously, letting him know that she was. He chuckled, unable to help himself. She was something. Something that appealed to him in a way that he was unaware was possible. They teased each other for a while. He made her laugh a lot. He loved that about her. He loved that he could make her laugh, a lot about her.  

They sat facing each other for a long time, laughing and talking. He was not curious about how he was suddenly healthy, why the animals were ambling around them, or where she had come from; he did not want to spoil it by thinking too much about it. When he asked her why she had decided to come to him and insisted on an answer, she looked uncomfortable, as if she did not know the answer. As if she were very unfamiliar with not knowing. Like, not knowing was a new territory for her. So, he had dropped the question; he never wanted to see her uncomfortable, he realized. 

“You won’t tell me your name, will you?” 

He asked her instead. She shrugged. She did those a lot, he noted. He also noticed how her dark skin caught the sun, rather than the other way around. She was a woman who gave beauty to the day. 

“Shall I give you one? I mean, I won’t be pushy and insist that the stranger make herself known. But I must call you something.” 

He joked. 

“Okay.” 

She replied as if she couldn't be bothered about something as trivial as what he chose to call her. But he saw the glimmer in her eyes, the way it sparkled; she found him interesting. He celebrated; his joy at this realization spread across his whole face in a grin that had her smiling indulgently at him. 

“I will call you, Achalugo. Because your beauty defines the look of the day.” 

~ 

A cock crowed in the present, waking him up from his reverie. Achalugo’s pot was almost finished, he thought, focusing on her. She was the only person who never bothered him when he was lost in his thoughts. She said it was his link to both worlds. He smiled, remembering the confusion when he had brought her home that day. The village had worried; if she were cursed and banished, she would only spell trouble for their town. Those first days had been difficult. People had looked past, over, through her, but never directly at her. Almost as if she was not there. They had treated her like she was an imaginary friend. His anger lasted until he noticed that only the weak and dying looked directly at her, almost as if the rest knew she was there, but only the select could truly see her. 

“One of these days, you will have to stop staring at me, like you are seeing me for the first time.” 

Achalugo said, wiping her hand on her wrapper. She never treated things like expensive wrappers as if they were of consequence; it infuriated the women of his family and made him glow with pride. The wind and rain were raging in earnest now. Around them, servants attending to the children and their corn and pears roasted the corn and pears over the make-do bonfire. The whole place smelled mouthwatering, of roasted corn and pears. 

“In your dreams. I will never stop staring at you, my love.” 

He answered, eyes dancing, the flames of the bonfire reflected in them. She walked over, stretched, and sat beside him on the mat. He shimmied towards her and lay his head on her lap. She smelled of her clay. He loved every one of her smells. Ogolo suddenly became aware of a chorus of giggles from the servants and the children. He looked up to find Achalugo rolling her eyes conspiratorially. 

“He is more of a baby than you all, right?” 

Achalugo said, the giggles and laughter that followed lit up the darkening day more than the bonfire could dream of. He chuckled into her lap before he sat back up in mock annoyance. 

“I will not allow laughter at my expense.” 

He scolded the giggling toddlers, but they giggled even harder. He spent half of the afternoon telling them off and eating corn. The children settled down by him and Achalugo as the afternoon wore on. The wind, throwing a fit, was calming; it added to the rhythm of the heavy rain. Even the tall coconut trees, savagely swaying, threatened by the wind, were part of the rhythm of the afternoon. They ate their corn content, and, happy to be in the presence of the love of his life, he understood them. The rain soon slowed to a drizzle, and maids and mothers came for their sleepy children. The children and maids left one by one, leaving the two lovers alone again. 

“You had your dreams again.” 

Achalugo said after he had settled back on her lap. He had had the dreams again. But she would worry if he confirmed her suspicion. He closed his eyes instead, enjoying the feel of her hand running through his bald head. The air was calm and soothing, but not as relaxing as his Achalugo. 

“Let me into your hut.” 

She admonished. But she never had to ask; he hated being away from her at night. It was these dreams. His dreams were becoming stronger and stranger by the night, and he woke up screaming almost every night now. Ogolo hated her, seeing him like that, seeing him full of fear, for something that was not even real. 

“What did you see this time?” 

She asked him. 

“The same one.” 

He replied. He did not open his eyes, but he knew her enough to feel her nod. The feeling of foreboding had been falling over them every sundown since the dreams started, the last couple of weeks. 

“You see darkness eating up the world.” 

She said, but she was not talking to him; she had that lost-in-thought sound in her voice. He snuggled closer into her and wrapped his hands around her stomach. 

“Maybe you should spend the night with me.” 

He said, his breath tickling her exposed stomach. 

“That’s what I have been saying, silly. 

She chided; her hand was moving in a cycle on his back. 

“I don’t mean in the way you think, I am thinking no sleep for either of us.” 

He raised his head to her and wiggled his eyebrows. She slapped his back with her open palm playfully. 

“You wicked man.” 

She squealed, to the sound of his chuckle. 

“What? We both want the same thing: to prevent my nightmares, no sleep, no dreams. Besides, I don’t think the baby would mind.” 

Two things became true when his nightmares started. People started looking at Achalugo as if she were solid, as if they could finally see her. The second thing was the best of the two: Achalugo was pregnant.  

“What baby?”  

She asked, and he saw the confusion on her face. She was adorable. Did she not notice that his parents were kinder to her, that they found every opportunity to have her near them? Everyone but her knew she was pregnant.  

“We are pregnant, Achalugo.”   

He had been waiting for her to break the news to him for weeks, but he had eventually realized that his Achalugo did not know she was pregnant. It had occurred to him that he had to be the one to break the news to her. He smiled fondly at this.  

Inside his Achalugo was the first true grandchild of the Ogologo family. She was starting the second generation of the great Ogologo lineage. The mere thought filled him with joy that could not be contained. The woman he loved, whom he could not marry because she had no family to give her away, was going to be his, completely. A child would connect them now, forever. 

“No, don’t be stupid.” 

She laughed, incredulous at the idea. 

“I cannot be pregnant. It is impossible.” 

He saw the doubt creep into her face even as the words came out of her mouth. She realized that he was right. He smiled encouragingly at her, but the look of utter dismay on her face gave him pause. 

~ 

Achalugo did not choose one daughter over the other.  

Her labor had lasted two days, days when she felt pain for the first time in her existence. The rain had not even slowed in those two days; the human world cried for her, it felt her pain, and wanted to share in it. On the day her labor finally ended, her hair was a mess, she had sweat running down her entire body, and she was experiencing everything in those two days that she had never before experienced in all her existence. 

The day she left her child behind, she had not done it because she wanted to. Looking around the room at all the women crowding her daughter, singing, cooing to her, was a revelation. Her baby, a bright brown slippery thing that came into the world screaming, her barely existent hair matted to her head. Achalugo had fallen in love with her tiny bundle, harder than her other admirers crowding her. Watching her vulnerable child, she felt consumed by emotions that were beyond her, a passion she was unaware existed within herself. She would protect this child with everything in her, she realized. The trouble was, it wasn't just one child. There were two of them. 

~ 

“The Debia and the midwife are certain that our daughter will be special. Why won't she be? I am her father after all.” 

Ogolo was saying as he brought her a plate of goat meat head. She ate now, she got hungry as if she were human. What she would do with all of these changes was beyond her. She knew with certainty that she had to keep this child a secret from the others. Taking a lover was a common practice, but she was not supposed to bear children. Oh, how she had yearned for the chance to, but a Cosmic could not bear children, never mind that she was a god too. Ogolo’s dream was like the age-old prophecy, but why he was having them was beyond her. She looked up at him now, in her dimly lit hut. He was smiling his toothy smile, that smile she counted on these days to calm her. It was as if he could tell when she was spiraling. 

“We will call her Uloma because she is our blessing, Achalu.” 

He said, sitting beside her on their hard bed. He would feed the meat to her, she thought, smiling at him. He always did little things like that, things that solidified his place in her heart. ‘Uloma,’ she liked it. 

“Uloma.” 

She said out loud, testing the name. She smiled at him. It was perfect, her Uloma, she thought, running her hand over her round stomach. 

~ 

Two identical girls had come out of her, indistinguishable as if a soul had broken into two. A mother knew these things. The prophecy was correct, one person had been born twice, and at once. Achalugo was not Death at the moment; she was Achalugo, a mother to two precious girls. She would never admit to anyone that her dear babies would end the realms. The others could never find out about them. 

The midwives had looked past the other child; they had even looked through her as if she were not there, as if she did not exist. The other child, who had eyes far beyond her age, did not wail; she did not wiggle. She lay still, as if her little eyes were considering the room, as if her tiny mind was contemplating the world. Oh, a mother’s instincts. She wanted to remain with her daughter, but her other daughter needed her. The one made for this world would survive here, loved without measure. As her father's heir, she would be loved regardless of the circumstances. But the other daughter would not survive here. This was not her home; here she was like a fish out of water. Oh, a mother’s love, she made the decision. 

Uloma would grow up in the right world. In her world. Both Uloma.